A Lesson in Attraction
by TheMisfitToy
Summary: When Lestrade gets fed up with the unresolved sexual tension in 221b Baker Street, what lengths is he willing to go to in order to relieve it? Slash galore!


A Lesson in Attraction

Greg Lestrade, detective inspector of Scotland Yard was sick.

Absolutely sick of watching Sherlock Holmes, his resident pain in the arse, and John Watson, former army doctor and aforementioned pain in the arse's keeper, stare longingly at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. It was entirely pathetic, and really, what he was about to do would be a public service.

He really would deserve a medal.

After solving yet another baffling case, John, who he had struck up somewhat of a friendship with, had invited him over for a few beers –which he gladly accepted- and he would blame said beers on his actions on the off chance his brilliant master plan didn't work out as he hoped.

"Well, I'd better get going, it's late and I'm on the early shift tomorrow" he said, making a show of yawning and checking his watch, trying to supress the smirk that was threatening to burst forth.

Pushing himself up from the annoyingly comfy couch, as John babbled on about how he really should stay longer next time, and took a slightly larger than was strictly necessary step, so he was fully within the former army doctor's personal space. The almost instaneous shift in Sherlock's posture makes him cackle internally, and with a steadying breath, he ducks his head and kisses the small doctor square on the mouth, making sure to put enough pressure behind the action to show it's no accident, and, if he gets a little into it, well. It's Sherlock's fault in the first bloody place.

The muffled squeak from John as he moves his chapped lips against oddly soft ones adds to his amusement, and when he pulls back, the scarlet blush of his friend and the murder in Sherlock's eyes are enough to ice the proverbial cake.

"Thanks for the drinks lads, I'll be off now" and without a backwards glance, he's out of the apartment and half way down the stairs before either of the other men can react.

By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he can distantly hear John yelling and the smirk that's been struggling to break free finally kicks its way through and as he shuts the door of 221b behind him and hails a cab, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Sherlock;

"_And that, is how you do it _

_Gl __" _

John, is in absolute shock up in the flat, staring blankly at the door Lestrade has just exited, eyes bugged and completely unaware of the fire in his flatmate –and long term crush's- dark eyes. The little jingle that accompanies a text on Sherlock's phone and the following growl are enough to snap the stunned man into action.

"Sherlock, what the…" his question is cut off when he notices that his flatmates' eyes have darkened to almost black "w…what's going on?" John curses himself for stuttering but the way Sherlock is approaching him is almost predatory and he's torn between being scared or incredibly turned on.

If the tightness in his pants is anything to go by, his body has gone with option two.

Natural instincts cause John to step back until his back collides solidly with the wall and he can't escape as Sherlock prowls towards him, breaching his personal space until they're barely millimetres apart and John can smell the slightest hint of chemicals, ink and something uniquely Sherlock.

John doesn't even get a chance to question just what the bloody hell is going on before Sherlock fists his jumper and pulls him up whilst simultaneously lowering his own head so their lips connect, sending the most delightful shiver down his spine. It's the second time in about two minutes that he's been assaulted like this, but as Sherlock shifts himself closer so he's between John's thighs, the doctor really can't bring himself to care as he kisses back, hands sliding up Sherlock's back to tangle in the dark curls atop his head, tugging slightly to change the angle of the kiss.

Not one to be outdone, Sherlock employs every single thing he can remember from the 'romance books' Mycroft was so fond of in his teen years and bites experimentally on John's lower lip, eliciting a gasp from the smaller man currently pinned against the wall.

'_Christ'_ is all John can think as he feels a tongue reach out to soothe his recently bitten lip –if his pants were tight beforehand, they definitely are now- and he rolls his hips upwards instinctively to try and get some much needed friction and is pleasantly surprised by the little moan from Sherlock's mouth.

A gentle tug on the hair entwined on his fingers and Sherlock _whimpers_ grinding his hips downwards, and any and all rational thought flies from both their heads at contact. Breaking apart for air, John leans upwards and lays a gentle kiss against the hollow of Sherlock's throat, hands moving from his hair to his shoulders, pausing to push the jacket off, down towards a surprisingly firm chest as deft fingers unbutton that infuriatingly tight purple shirt that has recently become both the light and the bane of John's life.

When Sherlock's hands stray to the hem of John's jumper before slipping underneath to touch the heated skin, John nearly comes undone then and there. He's not stranger to bedding men, spending months across seas with a mostly male populous has made sure of that, but with Sherlock it feels entirely different, there's an undeniable spark past that of 'God, you're hot'.

It takes only moments before they're both shirtless, and they've somehow navigated themselves to the much too tiny sofa, the backs of Sherlock's knees hit the leather and he drops onto the seat, panting softly.

Both men take a pause to steal a breath and drink in the sight of each other.

Sherlock is sharp angles, smooth alabaster skin covering lean muscles whilst John is broader, more defined and there are light scars across his chest and stomach. Both men are sporting impressive tents in their respective trousers.

John has managed to straddle Sherlock's thighs during the fall and he finds that he rather likes the normally guarded man so exposed. Lowering his head, John lays light nips and kisses from the corner of Sherlock's mouth down his jaw, across the sensitive skin of his neck and when his teeth graze against the fluttering pulse of Sherlock's neck, he feels the jerk of Sherlock's hips.

The two men were far too wrapped up in one another to notice a flushed in the doorway, nor do they hear her muttered;

"Oh, I simply must tell Mycroft, he'll be so mad to know I won the bet"

Three days after his little scene with John and an excited phone-call from Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade was feeling more than a little smug as he sauntered towards his office, customary cup of coffee in hand, that was, until he reached said office and was greeted with the sight of someone who bore a remarkable likeness to Sherlock in countenance sat in his chair, looking incredibly bored.

"Who the bloody hell are you?!" Lestrade demanded, scowling at the man opposite him

The unknown presence stood gracefully and stalked towards Lestrade who was acutely reminded of an angry Sherlock until he was toe to toe with him, causing Lestrade to tilt his head slightly to meet the eyes of the slightly taller man.

"This, is how it's done, Detective" the man muttered before lowering his head to capture Lestrade's mouth in a searing kiss causing said man to drop his coffee in shock. Rough lips meshed against his and a demanded tongue forced entry into his mouth, provoking his tongue into a ferocious battle for dominance which the stranger won.

Just as Lestrade went to move his hands, the stranger pulled back, stepping a respectable distance away and levelling him with a flat stare before strolling towards the door, grabbing the previously unnoticed umbrella as he went and dropping an unassuming card on the floor.

Lestrade was far too confused –and aroused for that matter- to process what just happened, and it wasn't until the stranger was long gone that his cognitive functions kicked in, and he made to follow the kisser before realising that it was pointless.

Kneeling down, he picked up the cream card and growled when he read the delicate italic writing on the front

'_Mycroft Holmes'_

He really did deserve a bloody medal.

Damn psychopaths and their bloody siblings.


End file.
